


i feel like the word 'shatter'

by MidwesternDuchess



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, I just really loved the concept of drawing parallels between perc'ahlia and the briarwoods, Perc'ahlia, also I had to do actual research bc I forgot when any of this happened lmao, anyway, shoutout to the CR timelines I found, this is only my second critical role piece so like idk how good it actually is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 07:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11892987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/pseuds/MidwesternDuchess
Summary: "You can wet the rim of a glass and run your finger around the rim and it will make a sound. This is what I feel like: this sound of glass.” -Margaret Atwood(Suddenly, breaking the world for the one you love doesn't seem so mad. It seems like the first step on an endless list.)





	i feel like the word 'shatter'

It occurs to Percy gradually, over an awfully long period of time.

Mostly because _love_ is typically the natural predecessor of more intense, darker emotions—a kind of gateway drug to things that are arguably best left well alone, things not to be meddled with, thoughts not designed for dwelling—and it took Percy more than enough time to get to _love_ at all.

But Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III is nothing if not a meddler and a dweller, and he can always be counted on to directly insert himself into whatever situation has been deemed _best left well alone_. So it isn't altogether shocking when the thought occurs to him.

_Briarwoods._

It's been nagging at him for some time now—he didn't have a name for it, back then. It was a sort of abstract, formless thing that swirled lazily in and out of his consciousness, easily blown away by whatever new tool needed tinkering with, or what plan required tweaking.

Just as he'd begin to grasp at it, Keyleth would appear—her sunshine smile and fire-kissed hair dispelling his thoughts. Or Vax would detach himself from the shadows, approaching Percy in low tones—either something incredibly dire or some kind of prank, it's always a toss-up—and the idea would slip away again.

He gets his first taste of it in Syngorn—that moment that had burned white-hot in his chest, his heart hammering so hard he risked cracking his ribcage as he'd thrown Syldor's damnable arrogance and superiority back in his face. The elf should have known better, truly, than to play a game of family pride with a member of House de Rolo.

But nothing had mattered more in that moment than the look on Vex'ahlia's face as he gifted her with a _title_ —land and authority and a place of belonging—so casually one would think he'd had hundreds of them just lying around.

He didn't, and she knew that, and they both recognized it for what it was—a piece of him, given to her to do as she pleased.

She'd fashioned it into armor— _Lady Vex'ahlia, Baroness of the Third House of Whitestone and Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt_ —said with the same steel and ferocity she'd spat out things like _Vox Machina_ or _Vax's sister._ It was an identifier and an anchor—and it was all hers. And all he could think was how he wanted to give her _more._

It comes up again in a hundred little ways, with past interactions suddenly falling into place as well. All the arrows he'd made for her, all the jokes they'd shared, the secret smiles and teasing nicknames. All the times he'd willingly dropped whatever had commanded his attention, immediately surrendering it to her.

He cannot think of a single time he'd outright refused her anything—even with Orthax rumbling low in his ribcage, hissing like a snake as his telltale smoke curled around Percy's head, leaking out of his mask as his very soul seemed to wilt in the presence of the shadow demon, he couldn't see anything but blackness, could hear nothing but the sound of his own revenge howling at him—

_"Percival, darling, take off the mask."_

And he had—without remembering the action, the thought. She wanted something and it was done.

He would do anything for Vex'ahlia.

However hard, however far, however it must get done—if she wished it he would make it so. It's a kind of loyalty that's dizzying to think about—like looking down a flight of stairs that descend into darkness. He has no idea how far he'll go until he's there.

He fights it like hell. The proposition of being similar to the Briarwoods—the notion of sharing any common ground with them—makes his very skin crawl. He tries to defend himself with his character—tries to force a gap between them, create space, separation. He _can't_ be like the Briarwoods. They know nothing of integrity, or selflessness, or concern for anything outside of themselves. He has his pride as a de Rolo, his lordship, his place within Vox Machina, at the side of his friends, of _Vex._ He has more than they ever have—is capable of more than they ever were.

But a thought haunts him—it catches like thorns on the edges of his chivalry and love and honor, tears holes in his nobility, his namesake, his pride, and picks at his honesty and devotion.

_"I broke the world for us."_

When Ripley _shot_ him—when he lay dying on Glintshore with splinters of glass digging into his back and arms and legs and scalp, staring up at the sky as blood and life and willpower all drained out of him to stain the crystal shards—he'd heard Vex'ahlia scream like her heart had been forcibly torn from her chest and he'd thought to himself—hazily, sluggishly, his mind both a million miles away and nowhere at all— _just like Lady Briarwood._

_"I broke the world for us."_

When Vex's body _fell—_ when he could only watch with horror as Death curled her talons into their brave, darling ranger ** _—_** Percy stared, numb to absolutely everything expect for thoughts of the devastating things he would do to _undo_ this. He'd bring entire worlds to their knees, strike a thousand deals with a thousand shadow demons, claim any soul as forfeit—whatever it took to bring Vex'ahlia back. _Just like Lady Briarwood._

Breaking the world wasn't some ultimate, endgame trump card. It was merely the first step on an endless list.

It is such a list that Percy is silently pondering as he hides away in his workshop, too distracted and bothered and rankled to lose himself in his work. He simply spins some stray bullets in his fingers, trying to determine an endpoint for his devotion to Vex'ahlia—tries to carve out a definitive marker that says _this far and no farther_ when it comes to things he would do for her.

Nothing comes to mind. Percy just watches the bullet's metal casing glint in the light as it spins and spins and spins—

"Percy, darling?" Vex's voice lilts up at the end, the way it does when she's snagged onto some part of him that is out of place, flint rock eyes zeroing in on whatever it is that's tipped her off as she draws closer, peering at him. "Everything alright?"

Percy starts—jolted out of his thoughts—and as he snaps his gaze around to hers, he can see concern lighting in her pitch eyes. He tries to feel his face from the inside out—tries to get a sense of what she's seeing—but eventually he just lowers his gaze back to the bullet.

"Percy?" He hears her shift as she prepares to take the seat next to his workbench, the one he'd installed specifically for her. Her voice takes on a lighter tone, grasping for levity after apparently taking in his harsh seclusion. "You've been in here for hours. Scanlan's making jokes and while I am _perfectly_ prepared to defend your honor, I'd figure you'd like to at least give him some of your usual sass before—"

"Do you think it's possible to love someone too much?"

Vex's whole body goes taut like a sprung mousetrap—freezing her where she'd been lowering herself into his workshop's spare seat and stealing the words straight from her throat, rendering her still and speechless as she lifts her head to stare at him, stunned.

"Darling?" she tries, still suspended in her movement, watching him carefully, expression torn between concern and caution. "Did something happen—?"

"Delilah broke the world for Sylas," he murmurs, and Vex's eyes snap wide. Percy just stares at his hands—stained dark with soot and grime and grease and other things he can't see.

After a moment, the chair creaks as Vex sinks into it, sitting tall and straight, her chin in the air as she assesses him. She seems to gather her poise around her like a cloak of the finest silk and fur, and he's struck—not for the first time—by her regality.

"She did," Vex agrees, the register of her voice dropping to something low and steady—she speaks with the cadence of a heartbeat. He can feel her gaze sharp across his back, but continues to toy with the spare bullets. "I quite remember her saying so. Screaming it, in fact."

Percy swallows, wondering how much he can say—how much he _should_ say—when he feels one of Vax's hands trail over his tense shoulder. The ranger's fingers are slender and small, but strong and knotted with callouses as she gently ghosts over his shoulder to run her hand lightly over his neck, sinking her fingers into his snowy locks.

"What's wrong, Percy?" she murmurs, leaning forward. "What's got you thinking about the _Briarwoods?"_

He considers blurting out what feels like the truth— _he never stopped thinking about the Briarwoods—_ but it's a boldfaced lie. The vampire and necromancer linger in his thoughts, yes, but there have been many times since the reclaiming of Whitestone that they have been banished entirely from his headspace.

Upon reflection, most of those times—if not all of them—occurred when he was in the company of Vex'ahlia.

But why should he hide anything at all? Why would he even _think_ such a thing? Had Vex not already seen the worst sides of him and loved him anyway? Is she not just as devoted as he, willing to go just as far, match him for every dark, destructive thought?

"It's a bit hard to talk to you when you're already arguing inside your own head, darling," Vex whispers, a knowing half-smile curling the side of her mouth. It doesn't touch her eyes, but Percy appreciates the flippancy all the same, and he clears his throat.

"It frightens me, at times," he begins, words clipped and careful. "The things I would do, if something happened—if someone tried to—" he breaks off, hardly able to articulate the thought—as if Vex hadn't already died before. As if she isn't in danger or at risk every moment of a campaign or a quest, as if this is a new concern of his, and not one he's had ever since she pulled him out of that dungeon all those years ago.

Her lips quirk in a smirk, but her eyes remain deadly focused. He knows she's taking this seriously.

"You worry you love me so much you would do terrible things if something happened to me?" she asks, mock serious, and he finally drags up his gaze to fix her with a flat look.

"I don't believe I mentioned _you_ specifically, Vex'ahlia," he drawls, playing along. The teasing feels natural, normal. It flows from his tongue easily, and Vex's smile flashes brighter.

"Trinket, then. He'll be delighted to know you care so dearly for him, darling."

Percy snorts, looking away and rolling his eyes with a soft, fond smile. "The things I have done for that bear…" he begins, reflexively tensing up as Vex punches him in the arm.

"The things that bear has done for _you,_ more like," she grumbles, and Percy glances sideways as she pushes herself out of the chair, and for one moment he's horrified she's going to make her exit—walk out of his workshop and leave him to drown in his thoughts—when she steps towards him. He turns around on the bench, facing her and allowing her to step up between his legs, settling in as his arms automatically come up to curl around her waist.

For a moment, they simply stand there, quietly existing in each other's space, soaking up each other's warmth and spirit. He bows his head against her stomach, gripping her waist and she cards her fingers through his pale hair.

"I don't think it's possible to love too much," Vex tells him softly, nimble fingers aimlessly toying with his hair. "I think it's possible to hate in the name of love, though, and that can be very precarious."

"Precarious how?" Percy asks, genuinely curious. "What's wrong with hating the thing that threatens the thing you love?"

Vex hums quietly, and Percy is reminded that for all his education and learning, Vex'ahlia is _more_ than capable of matching wits with him on a regular basis. And she does so. Frequently.

"Then you have to trust that your love is stronger than your hate, than your destruction," she breathes into his hair, and he shuts his eyes tightly, willing himself to believe her words, wanting to, more than _anything—_

"You have to love me more than you hate whatever might hurt me—whatever might kill me."

Percy's natural instincts flare to life. To try to attach an amount, an _enough_ —to his love for this woman picks at an anger that is tired and old, but still bares its teeth when pushed too hard.

As if she feels him tense—senses his sudden rigidity—she lowers her head to ghost her lips along his hairline. "Love is what brought you back from the dead, Percy," she reminds him softly. "Not hate, not destruction, not deals or threats. I gave you my heart and you came back to me."

"But if I _hadn't—"_

"But you _did—"_

"That doesn't change the probability of the matter, and the odds are not in our favor—"

_"Then I would have torn the very **afterlife** apart until I had you again!"_

Vex's declaration hangs in the air as she pushes away from him, her chest heaving, heart working overtime under the duress of her honesty. Percy can only stare.

 _"Of course_ I would break the world for you, Percival! I'd break anything, _anyone!"_ She flings her arms out wide. "I've felled _deities_ for less noble reasons! We're fighting a conclave of _dragons_ just because it's the _right thing to do!"_ She shakes her head, like she can't fathom the idea of someone disbelieving her commitment. "I could make Delilah Briarwood's devotion look like empty words, darling, do _not_ doubt me." Her voice is low and fierce and it _burns_ —words turned wildfire.

"I don't," he answers hoarsely.

She gazes down at him—Lady Vex, master of a wild regality and an unyielding queenship—and she says: "But I won't."

Percy's heart cuts all ties with his chest and leaps into his throat. Vex just stares down at him—Baroness of the Third House of Whitestone and Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt down to the last inch.

"Delilah made Sylas a _vampire_ , Percy," she reminds him, tone warring between a cold firmness and a gentle plea. "We have no idea what other horrific things went on. _Breaking the world_ can mean anything. For them, part of it meant slaughtering your _family."_

Percy's body goes rigid, and Vex steps back into his space, kneeling before him so they're nearly eye-level.

"I could do unspeakable things to keep you here with me, for all time," she whispers to him, staring with wide, sable eyes. "And I know you could too. But things _happen_. We walk a very dangerous road—we're at war with _dragons."_ She shakes her head, forcing a slight laugh, and Percy just waits—

"You said it yourself," she whispers, reaching up to run a sun-kissed brown thumb along his deathly pale cheekbone. "The odds don't favor us. One of these days, you or I or someone from Vox Machina—someone we _care_ about—is going to die. And they won't come back."

He seizes up again—bones going taut like they're on marionette strings—and she cups both hands to his face, rising up in a crouch to press her forehead against his, soothing him quietly.

_"Vex—"_

"It's okay, Percy, _it's okay,"_ she whispers to him. "That's _life,_ you _know_ that." She sits back on her heels; fixing him with a look of such intense tenderness he forces a hard swallow to try to dispel the lump forming in his throat. She drops her hands from his face and he catches them as they move back to her sides, twining their fingers on his lap.

"What we have now can never be recreated," she murmurs. "I don't doubt that Sylas and Delilah ever stopped loving each other, but it couldn't have been like it was. You can't do the kinds of things they did and just...pick up where you left off." She squeezes his hands where he holds them on his lap.

Percy wants to argue. Wants to rage and yell because _it's not fair._ It's not _fair_ that people like the Briarwoods get to shatter all the rules to be together, when he and Vex could lose each other at any moment. It's not _fair_ that life and love come at such a high cost, and that he, Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III, lord of Whitestone, is near broke in such coinage. It's not _fair—_

He stares back at Vex, who is waiting for his response, idly running tracing designs on the back of his hand.

It's not fair what happened to his family—not fair that the Briarwoods did what they did in the name of love. It isn't right or just or forgivable that they took away his chance at love—his family and his home—just so they could have what they wanted. They placed their love above all else—kindness and decency and respect and all the things that make up love to begin with—and Percy will be damned if he does the same.

"I live as long as Whitestone lives," he recites quietly—words that used to haunt him, but now fill him with a sense of pride and duty and accomplishment. He lifts his gaze to meet hers, sun glinting off the lenses of his glasses. "And you are a part of that now, Lady Vex'ahlia."

She smiles up at him—one of those quiet, secret, crooked smiles that she's been giving him since the beginning, the smiles that started all of this—and brings their joined hands up to kiss his knuckles.

"You're damn right I am."

The thoughts don't leave immediately—he's a dweller, remember, particularly on unpleasant thoughts—but here, in the warmth of his workshop, holding hands with Vex, he can't help but feel like he's already broken the world to get where he is—to have survived all he has, and gained the love and friendship and company of those around him.

He has his home, his family, his friends, and his life—and his love will survive through all of that and more.

Besides, he's always been better at building than breaking, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> wow! a critical role fic! golly gee!
> 
> This whole thing was inspired by a post I saw from [@rangervex](http://rangervex.tumblr.com/) sort of a long time ago? I’m so mad I can’t find the original post but it was essentially comparing perc’ahlia to the Briarwoods and I was like _sign me the fuck up_ and here we are.
> 
> disclaimer this is literally the second time in my life I’ve written Critical Role and the first time I’ve written Percy at all so uh sorry if it feels off? also it’s been like an actual year or two since I watched the Briarwood arc so things might not be like, exactly correct? Idk I took some liberties with the timeline and also have no idea where this falls on CR’s like, proper chronology.
> 
> otherwise: have a thing I think we’ve all considered, which is how fuckin much Vex and Percy love each other, and if they’d pull a Lady Briarwood and break the world. the majority of time I was writing this I was thinking _yes, of course they would and this fic is going to be sad and tragic_ but then I was like _I think Percy and Vex have a much healthier relationship than that and would take the high ground._ idk though. kinda a toss-up.
> 
> also it’s really hard to write death as being The Ultimate Big Bad when revivify is a thing and Certified Gnome Mother Pike Trickfoot is in your corner but I digress
> 
> _Like this piece? Here’s my billboard!_
> 
> **[MORE CRITICAL ROLE WRITING](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/pseuds/MidwesternDuchess/works?fandom_id=5406982) **
> 
> **[MAIN/PERSONAL BLOG](http://reduxroyal.tumblr.com/) **
> 
> **[WRITING DUMP](http://dominodebt.tumblr.com/) **
> 
> **[TWITTER](https://twitter.com/reduxroyal) **
> 
> Hope you guys like it <3
> 
> Have a good one, and feel free to drop me a line if you want!


End file.
